And Whispered In the Sounds of Silence
by Jenny Islander
Summary: This is a series of gap fillers for Fialleril's magnificent Double Agent Vader series, available here at FFN. I strongly recommend reading everything under the Double Agent Anakin and Tatooine Slave Culture tags at fialleril dot tumblr dot com or you're going to be lost and confused. Anything here may be jossed at any time.  Also, I note that FFN still can't grok double dashes.
1. Aboard a Medical Frigate

**I. Aboard a Medical Frigate**

 _A few months after the destruction of the Second Death Star, Anakin faces the future._

He wakes to find Mon Mothma sitting beside the bed.

Sleep drops on him unexpectedly these days. The medical staff say that it's perfectly normal, considering the amount of healing his body has to do; he's had eleven surgeries so far, and (they remind him dolefully) won't accept anything but surface nerve blocks for the pain, so. He's gotten used to unfinished conversations, to seeing new and interesting faces in the room.

The Chancellor of the New Republic, though...that's unexpected.

Poised as a dancer in the chair Solo always complains about, wrists crossed gracefully in her lap, she watches him steadily. He's too tired, always too tired, for verbal fencing matches; he waits for her to speak. She is studying his scars, old and new, the oxygen concentrator purring away on the bedrail, the assorted tubes trailing under the bedclothes, the unwieldy temporary prosthetics. Let her look; he is far past caring about the wreckage he made of himself.

He almost falls asleep again before she leans forward. "So," she says. "General Skywalker. How are you feeling?"

He blinks. "I'm...pretty sure I went AWOL a long time ago, Chancellor."

She smiles a political smile. "Be that as it may, how are you?"

"Um...tired most of the time, very comfortable though actually, enjoying eating real food even if it's gruel...but did you really take a shuttle trip over here just to ask me how I am?"

"You can understand my concern over your condition."

"Oh, right." He settles his shoulders against the pillows they use to keep him well braced while sleeping reclined, which seems to help. "Well, I'll be fit to stand trial in a few months, they tell me."

Her face goes still. "There will be no trial."

Deep in his heart, he was expecting this. Still, it's a bit of a shock. "Chancellor, what's the point of all this repair work if you're just going to execute me without showing me off first?"

"Who said anything about an execution?" she snaps.

Oh, kriffing hells, they wouldn't. But then again, they might. "Imprisonment, then? I think I've proven," he says gently, "that no prison can hold me forever. And, uh, I do get bored."

Mothma is glaring at him now. "Agh! She warned me-" She pinches the bridge of her nose and squeezes her eyes shut. "Look. Even if we wanted to put Darth Vader on trial, we would have to do the same to Ekkreth, who helped to found the Rebel Alliance." While he is still floundering over that one, she sweeps onward, regaining the momentum of her dignity. "In the interests of a fair trial, we would have to declassify everything Ekkreth ever did-"

"Now, hold on! I've lost count of the number of people I've personally murdered and you think anybody would accept some cloak-and-dagger games as an excuse?"

"-And if we airlocked Darth Vader, as much as I would like to, we would be murdering the being who maneuvered the Death Star into the kill box. _And_ if we put Vader into prison, we would have to do the same to the longest-serving Clone Wars POW, right after he escaped." She pauses, looking down at him. "So, General, you'll have to deal with life after victory, just like the rest of us. I do hope you feel better soon, and I'm sorry I couldn't make it over here sooner." She rises, brushing her robes into order with her hands, hesitates, bows slightly, and departs.

He stares at the ceiling, letting the tears trickle down his temples. What the hell is he supposed to do now?


	2. In an Officers' Mess

**II. In an Officers' Mess**

 _About a year after the death of the Emperor, and a few months after he was invited to defect, Firmus Piett has a revelation._

It had, Firmus Piett decided dispassionately, been an absolute pit of an afternoon.

His ass was still partly numb from hours in a chair that had passed its replacement date. His shoulders were tight from the effort of suppressing his reactions to a couple of long-serving Rebel brasshats who'd spun out the damn briefing tag-teaming him with increasingly thinly veiled insults. And to top it off, he was fairly certain that he was coming down with a cold. Nothing in the officers' mess smelled right.

His stomach rumbled. _Home One_ was a day out from an agrarian planet, so there was some kind of fresh vegetable and meat soup steaming in a big kettle behind the service counter. He might not be able to taste it, but it should do him good. He accepted a bowl and a hunk of something gray and dry that was probably technically bread, and looked around for General Skywalker. His mind still stumbled a bit at the thought that his usual mealtime spot was next to Darth Vader, but he was too tired to think about it much.

Vad-Skywalker nodded to him and then did a doubletake himself. "You look terrible."

Firmus shrugged. "It's been...quite a day." He concentrated on dipping his bread into his soup a bite's worth at a time. The purr of Skywalker's portable oxygen concentrator was oddly soothing. Skywalker spoke quietly into his comm, some language Firmus didn't recognize, and turned back to his own meal.

A few minutes later, Skywalker's personal medical droid glided into the mess, most of its arms tucked neatly away, one dangling a thermal bottle. "Here you are," it (she! he reminded himself, and wasn't that surreal?) chirped, setting the bottle down at his elbow. "Hope you feel better."

He blinked. "Thanks." The little droid strobed her lights cheerfully at him and hummed out.

He unscrewed the cap. A delicious spicy smell drifted upward. He sipped tentatively, then again with appreciation. The drink seemed to flow gently clear to his toes and fingertips, soothing, clearing, putting color and flavor back into the world.

Where had he tasted this before?

The memory leaped into focus. One terrible night, after a promotion that felt like a horrible joke, when he could not sleep, and a thermal bottle had been waiting in his new quarters to keep him company...

Vad- _Skywalker_ glanced at him with a twinkle in his eye.

He slammed the bottle down. "Holy kriffin' shavit!"


	3. Beneath Three Moons (Held in Memory)

_Note: This is a repost. I am grateful for the kind comments on the earlier version of this chapter, but I revised it because I'm a fussbudget and also because I realized that I had crammed two stories into one chapter. The vision of Ar-Amu belongs elsewhere._

 **III. Beneath Three Moons (Held in Memory)**

 _The embers of the Second Death Star are still burning when the time comes for a pyre of another kind._

They slipped away from the celebration: Luke, Biggs, and Environmental Technician Inshara Rain, a grim-faced Twi'lek with evenly spaced burn scars on both lekku. Luke handed them each a heavy duffel and led them to a clearing just far enough from the village to reduce the noise to a joyous background hum. They dropped their duffels thankfully and sat on them, angularly lumpy though they were, while Luke scraped at the forest duff with his boots, outlining a rectangle about the size of a child's pyre. "The chief said we need to get a certain kind of moss off the trees to put around the edge so the fire won't spread," he said. "We can't use rocks; they'll all be wet and they might burst. Let me see...Hang on." He peered up into the massive gloom of the trees around them.

Then he scampered straight up one of the towering branchless trunks like a sketto getting ready for takeoff.

"Stang, Luke!" Biggs yelped. "How are you _doing_ that?"

"Force," Luke said matter-of-factly. He was already lost in the overarching shadows. There was a faint ripping sound. "Look out below!" An armload of virulently green moss landed with a wet thud. "Think we're gonna need another one," he called down. By the rustling and creaking, he had run along one of the long swaying branches overhead and leaped a ridiculous distance into another tree. Shortly afterward another armload of moss thudded down.

Rain was craning her neck next to him. "He really is a Jedi, isn't he?"

"Apparently," Biggs said bemusedly. "I mean, I've seen him fly and shoot, and it's unreal, but he never pulled stuff like this before."

Luke shinnied down a tree on the other side of the clearing, letting go-Biggs and Rain both cried out-when he was still ten meters off the ground. He seemed to drift downward. He didn't quite stick the landing, though, toppling onto his ass. "Whoops," he said, and grinned. Biggs had to laugh. Luke in his twenties was in some ways still Luke in his teens.

The duffels proved to be full of the things they needed to build the pyre, all dry. Apparently the kid had picked up the basics of starting a wood fire in a wet climate while he was off learning how to defy gravity. The pyre blazed up in crackling resinous flames, transforming the open circle among the trees into a room walled by leaping shadows. The black outfit that Biggs had teased Luke about made him half-disappear into the night as he prowled the perimeter, sometimes looking into the darkness, sometimes closing his eyes and standing still. It was like watching him track womp rats back home, just spookier.

He turned back toward the pyre. The hilt of his lightsaber glinted at his hip; the firelight cast the frostbite scars and grooves of pain on his still-boyish face into relief. Suddenly Biggs was looking at a stranger.

Luke met his gaze wryly. A stranger who could sometimes read minds. Right.

"Only because you're thinking at me so loudly," he said. "Nah, don't worry about it. I had pretty much the same reaction when I first saw that thing you call a mustache."

"Hey!"

Rain shifted her weight and flexed the tips of her lekku with pointed politeness. A generation older than the two humans, she had little in common with them-except here. Except now.

The kid took a long, slow breath. There were words to be said now. He closed his eyes and chanted them instead.

The Amatakka rolled out through the night air loudly enough that Biggs and Rain both looked around nervously at first. "I call the seven winds," Lukka said-and here and now it was Lukka, not Luke, regardless of the Jedi getup. Biggs'-Bikkhu's-own flightsuit and Rain's-Anah's-brown tunic didn't matter either.

"We are here," said Bikkhu and Anah. He heard others in his memory: his mother's soft high treble, his father's hoarse bass.

"I call the three moons."

"We are here."

"I call the two suns."

"We are here." Anah was weeping very gently. She never liked anyone to notice, so he looked up to the patch of sky visible between the crowns of the trees, where the occasional fragment of the second Death Star still blazed across the stars.

Depur Depuran was dead.

A wild laugh rose from deep in his chest. He shouted at the sky. "Bentu Depuraak!"

Anah looked up too, smiling even as tears sparkled on her cheeks. "I never even heard of a Marokeppu outdoors. This is-who would ever believe it?"

"We won't be alone for long," Lukka cautioned. "The party will come looking for us." He dug around in one of the duffels again for a squashy sausage-shaped tube that he set down a careful distance from the flames.

"Lukka? Why did you pack Nuboom?"

"Because of this." He pulled out a heavy bundle of black armorweave and shook it into shape: a long, broad cloak lined with black satin, attached to a sleeveless open-fronted robe. "This was Vader's." He met their gazes almost defiantly. "His depur gave it to him."

"I heard," Anah said slowly, "that Vader was really a thief of secrets." No question where she had heard it. Lukka and the Princess had been shouting it-in Basic: _Double agent!_ -all over the docking bay a few hours ago as they demanded a medic for the wheezing ruined monster that lay in the shuttle behind them. Bikkhu had heard that Mon Mothma was not exactly happy with them for that.

"He is. But Vader is a slave name. His right name is Anakin Ekkreth."

It took a moment for the stick to drop to the drum. Then Bikkhu blurted, "Anakin Ek- _Anakin Skywalker_?"

Lukka nodded. "My bodyfather. My father."

"Great Mother," Anah breathed. She began to giggle. "Ekkreth brought down Depur Depuran!"

"There's more to the story," Lukka said grimly. "He was a Jedi." His voice dropped into a storytelling cadence. "They called him The Hero With No Fear. But the Sith were there beside the Jedi, lurking in ambush. And the Sith are depuran, every last one of them. And the Lord of the Sith, Depur Depuran, was Sheev Palpatine. He stirred up the war that broke the Republic. He wrapped himself in lies: the smiling grandfather, the kindly guardian. He waited until the time was right to strike. And he tricked Anakin Ekkreth into putting his own neck into the collar."

He shook the cape in his hand. "In a cage of black steel he laid him, without escape, without allies. He took away the clear light from his eyes, the clean breath from his lungs. He put a wire into his heart and a window into his hidden thoughts. He took away his voice, his face, his name. He mocked him with pretenses of great honor, even as his hands tightened the chain. And he made Ekkreth keekta-du."

Although he was unsmiling, his voice now became rich with satisfaction: the hidden laughter of the slave. "But there are always places Depur does not see." He lowered himself, wincing, to sit crosslegged on one of the emptied duffels. "Ugh. Day's catching up with me. Anyway. One day, Depur sent his slave Vader to treat with the Depur of Tatooine. 'Offer him my goodwill,' he said." His imitation of Palpatine's voice was so eerily accurate that Bikkhu and Anah both shuddered. " 'Remember, Vader, who you are; remember that I made you, and you are mine. I send you now to Tatooine to remember where you came from.' For in Depur's mind, the desert was nothing at all."

They all paused to savor the pun.*

"And Vader went where he was sent, and bowed to the depuraan, and said the words he had been given to say. Then, his master not having called him to heel, he went walking, alone, through the streets of Depur's city. And there he found the Grandmother of the Quarter, teaching the children. And she was telling them the story of Ekkreth and the secret of tzai: how Ekkreth went to the places Depur did not see, and there did what Depur did not expect. And when the story was done, he remained, and she remained.

" 'I see you,' she said. 'Come and tell me your name.' " Where had the kid learned how to do voices like this?

"And the slave said, 'My name is Vader.' (In Vader's voice!)

" 'You have forgotten,' she said to him. 'I know you, son of the sands. Tell me your name.' "

"And he looked about him at the desert, at everything that Depur did not see. And he said, 'My name is Ekkreth.'

"And the Grandmother said, 'Remember who you are.' " There was something-Lukka's voice was somehow bigger, or older, or just _more_. Bikkhu rolled his shoulders. The day must be catching up with him too.

"And she went her way.

"And he went out into the desert, and he remembered-everything. And he looked for the window in his thoughts, and painted the mask and the chain across it, so that when Depur looked into Ekkreth's mind, he saw what he expected to see, and Ekkreth could work his trickery in the inner places that Depur did not see. And when Depur called Ekkreth to heel, Ekkreth bowed very low and said, 'My master, I need more time.'

"And he began to steal secrets for the Alliance, though at first they did not believe him. And when he sent his messages, he used this sign." And he drew the Three Moons in the dirt with his finger, surrounded by the Broken Fetter, and left them there to flaunt themselves at the sky.

"So that's why I need the stuff. It ought to burn armorweave. Actually I wanted to burn the armor, but the medics wouldn't let me. The wire in the heart? That's not just an image. The thing only looks like armor. It's a prison. They're still figuring out all the traps in it. Palpatine, Sidious, the Sith Lord, he didn't want to let his Jedi prize escape. Father-Father may not live, but if he does, I want him to know that I burned something for him."

Suddenly the Imperial naval cap that Bikkhu had liberated felt like an afterthought.

Anah stirred. "I hate to be a killjoy," she said slowly, "but that's a lot of armorweave."

"Well, yeah, but I've got a whole tube of Nuboom here."

"I mean, I could make two field tunics out of that. Probably more. Supplies could use every square meter of the stuff we can dig up."

Lukka looked as though he wanted to argue, but he caught himself and sighed. "I see what you're saying. Yeah, that's probably for the best."

He ripped the showy satin lining out instead. "Next year," he said, with slightly unnerving certainty, "next year I'm going to be back at this very spot, and I'll have the armor with me. And I'll make sure the unclean thing burns."

"Hey, we still have some Nuboom to get rid of," Biggs offered.

He brightened. "We sure do!"

Anah smiled at them both, settling her lekku, like an auntie indulging the antics of the young.

They spitted the tube on a pole that was longer than the pyre and swung it gingerly onto the flames, which immediately turned from resin-yellow-gold to magma-red, roaring up in fury. Without a blasting cap attached, Nuboom made a fantastic if short-lived accelerant. Whatever the satiny stuff was made of, though, did not so much burn as melt into foul slag. After Bikkhu had thrown the officer's cap on the fire, Anah took a folded flimsi from her tunic and spread it out for them. An old human man leered out at them. She drew him every year, and every year they burned him, the three children of Ar-Amu who the winds had blown into the Rebel fleet. This was their third Marokeppu together.

"The rain was long ago," Lukka said over the flames, "but the desert does not forget."

"The desert never forgets," they said back to him. Anah had teared up again.

"The Mighty One comes with storm and with fire."

"We will walk free." Just for an instant all of their voices sounded, or felt, like an echo of Lukka's from the story. But beneath the stars, anything seemed possible.

They did not have enough voices for the Song of the Seven Winds, of course, and there was no need for journey-songs, but Anah had a fine warm alto and could keep the beat while she sang. She led them in freedom songs across the dying flames. After the third one, Lukka looked alertly in the direction of the main victory celebration. By the time the cheerful staggering contingent had reached them, they were Darklighter, Skywalker, and Rain again, trading sips from a clay bottle of the Ewoks' best/worst rotgut across a smoking hearth.

The Princess, towing a dazed and happy General Solo firmly by the hand, traded a long look with Luke; he nodded. "Come on," she said happily, "the party's over this way!"

Luke kicked wet moss across the last of the embers, scuffing for an extra second over a bare patch of dirt with something scratched into it. Rain ran on ahead, answering the calls and waves of friends. Biggs trailed behind, thinking about what his little brother had become.

Behind them, unnoticed, two dead Jedi sat in contemplation.

*In Amatakka, the word for desert also means the whole, the entirety, everything.


	4. In the Shadows, Before the Stars

_Belated thanks to Duc for setting up the relationship between Piett and Double Agent Vader in their delightful "Many Meetings," available on AO3._

 **IV. In the Shadows, Before the Stars**

 _What is whispered in secret will be shouted from the housetops. Also, Firmus Piett is a lightweight._

 _Home One_ had been built as a deep-space exploration ship, and parts of it were still distinctly non-military. The starboard promenade on Deck 6, the oxy-breathers' exercise room by day, was left unsecured and unlit during the mid-watch for anyone who cared to take in the view-or find a discreet hideaway among the weight-training machines and simulators. Although he could hear nothing behind him, Firmus kept his gaze on the panorama outside.

Sometimes, if he stood there long enough, he could stop thinking and go back to sleep.

It was customary for people who came in at this hour in order to stand at the rail to ignore one another, but something about the figure halfway down the absurdly long window-wall niggled at his attention. Tall, pale, broad-shouldered, hands clasped behind his back, feet firmly braced as if a storm were brewing around him...

Oh.

Vader- _Skywalker, dammit!_ -noticed him in return and held up a bottle.

Oh, why not.

"Tzai?" he asked when he was within comfortable speaking distance.

"Felt like something stronger," Skywalker said. The Outer Rim twang was more evident in his speech than usual. "This is Kenobi's Special Blend." He handed it over.

The smell was most certainly not tzai-like. "What is this?"

"Commissary tea and a few slugs of whatever you have. Corellian brandy is best if you can get it."

Firmus bared his teeth at the taste. Corellian this was not. He took another drink, turned the bottle, and handed it back. "That's good."

"When it's good, you know you need it," Skywalker said. He took a healthy swig himself.

If it hadn't been kriff-it-thirty after a long day, he might never have followed up on that. But it was, and things were different here. He leaned against the rail. "Twenty years I've been in space more often than not," he said to the starfield outside, "and I still have rathtar-dreams about vacuum."

There was a pause broken only by the soft sound of Skywalker's oxygen concentrator. "Fire, mostly," he said at last. "And-well. Mostly fire."

They passed the bottle back and forth again.

"When I was twenty," Firmus said to the frigate holding formation low on the flank of _Home One,_ "I was a shiny new officer fresh out of the accelerated Academy program, learning how to march to that thing Garanus wrote." He whistled a few bars. Kenobi's Special Blend was pretty damned good.

"Could be worse," Skywalker murmured. "It amplifies pretty well."

He chucked humorlessly. "Yes, and the uniforms aren't bad either. At least they got rid of that fussy bit across the front." He traced the path the line of black piping had followed. "My point is," he said, and had to flail after his train of thought. "My point is, when I was twenty, you were twenty-three. General."

Skywalker was silent. The air in the room seemed to grow a little heavier, but that was nothing new. Without the cape and the murder suit, it was only slightly unnerving. Or maybe that was the drink talking.

In for a credit, in for the whole ingot. He plunged onward. "One way or another, you've been at war for more than half your life. But you're still here. How do-how do you do it?"

More silence, long enough for Firmus to feel the first stirrings of dismay. But there was no censure in Skywalker's voice when he spoke again.

"I don't."

There was a trick to saying nothing in an inviting way that Firmus had used on nervous juniors before. Hopefully it worked on brooding generals (and so forth). (Skywalker!)

"I expected to die on the second Death Star. I was there to soak up the Emperor's attention so my children could kill him." He sighed. "Didn't work out that way."

A little voice deep in Firmus's mind gibbered, _Oh, shavit._

"I've been killing in the name of one Republic leader or another since I left Tatooine," Skywalker rasped in that incongruous Outer Rim accent, staring into the shadows of the room. "Half the time I damn well knew better, but I did it anyway. And when I saw my way out, I kept on killing so I could get there. And then the old depur went and fried me for good and all"-he absentmindedly rubbed his chest-"and all I could think was, 'Well, finally.' " He slanted a look at Firmus. "Don't worry; I'm not suicidal. Just-surprised."

Because Vader could pick his worries right out of his brain.

"Well, I try not to, but you're a lot louder than usual. How much of this did you drink?" He shook the bottle gently, listening to the level of the sloshing inside it.

"Either too much or not enough," Firmus said dazedly.

"Not the conversation you were expecting to have?" He was smiling sadly. "I don't have any wisdom for you, Piett. I'm here because...somebody...sacrificed herself to keep me alive, and I won't waste it. I've got a whole team of doctors, physical therapists, robotics consultants, and a couple of headslicers all trying to put me back together, and they're with the Fleet. Then there's the analysis work Intelligence wants done, and some PR, of all the damn things." He sipped a bit more. "And then I'll be going home. I'm done."

"Believe it or not," Firmus said, "I'll miss you."

Skywalker's smile became a crooked grin. He handed over the bottle. "Okay, I gotta hear more about this."

Firmus did not drink. "Really, though, I never did thank you. For my life."

"Stang, Piett, don't thank me for that! If my cover required it, I'd have sent you to the pit and you damn well know it!"

"I mean afterward." He shook his head, remembering. "After the announcement, all the venomous scavengers came squirming out of the ductwork. I'm sure you can name most of them. Some nights I went to my bunk not knowing who I would be answering to the next morning. It was only a matter of time until one of them issued a directive I couldn't follow. And then-well." He sipped, grimaced. "I never had the necessary connections. I think you got me out just in time. So, thank you." The big man shrugged, embarrassed. It was bizarrely endearing, and he didn't care whether he could hear that, either. "I just have to know why. Why me in particular?"

"Back when the war started-the first war, I mean-I would've given the rest of my limbs for another officer like you. There are never enough officers like you."

Suddenly he had to blink back tears. No more Kenobi's Special Blend! He cleared his throat. "So you put me on your list."

"Uh-huh. It's a short list, Piett."

"Well. Considering we've been baring our souls at each other, I think you ought to call me Firmus."

The brilliant smile brought to mind the old publicity holos of the Hero With No Fear. "Then I'm Anakin."

"Well, Anakin, good night. I hope you drowned your rathtars." He stood up from the rail and staggered. "Whoops!"

Anakin laughed at him. "Come on, drunky. Tell me where your quarters are and I'll get you there."

Some time later, somebody poured him into his bunk and pulled off his boots. The dream about Midshipman Tarniss and the breached flight deck did not come to him again that night.


	5. Planetside on Naboo

**Planetside on Naboo**

 _As it happens, swear jars are part of a very old tradition._

"My Lo-"

The conversation stopped dead. All eyes on were on the ex-Imperial and the big man with the astounding scars and the fluffy orange cat riding one shoulder.

The taller human fixed the shorter one with a hard glare and dug in his pocket. He held out a credit stick.

"Oh, come now, that one doesn't count!" protested the other man.

The glare intensified. The cat, apropos of nothing, licked her human's ear.

"You let Captain Altor slide by the other day!"

Glare. The cat began to purr, just a bit louder than the oxygen concentrator the man carried on the opposite hip.

The shorter human gritted his teeth. "Fine." He held out his own credit stick, tapped the number pad, and thumbed the transfer button. "Happy?"

"Yep." Skywalker smirked down at the total and slipped his credit stick back into his pocket.

The two men relaxed, apparently ignoring the staring and whispers. "What are you planning to do with that if we fill it up?" Piett asked his friend.

"Oh, I dunno. Something explosive. Or alcoholic. Maybe both?"

The cat flowed down from his shoulder and began to make friendly deposits of orange hair on Piett's trousers.

 _AUTHOR'S NOTE: I have no idea how currency actually works in the Galaxy Far Far Away. I imagine that a credit stick is a small, sturdy, theoretically unhackable personal data device that is only used for holding money in electronic form. It's typically only seen in the Core Worlds. You can transfer money to or from somebody else's credit stick using a tiny body scanner (set up for thumbprints in Piett's case) and a code. The Banking Clans have little readers (also theoretically unhackable) set up everywhere, like vending machines; they periodically scan everybody's credit stick and update the Banking Clan's database, also extracting a small transaction fee. So, basically, GFFAcard._


End file.
